


navigate the stars

by athena3062



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M, cs au week, cs au week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena3062/pseuds/athena3062
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CS AU. Canon Divergence from 4x9. After Ingrid casts a spell that sends Emma to an alternate version of reality, someone needs to smash the Snow Queen’s mirror and break the spell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	navigate the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CS AU Week 2016

Outside the clocktower window a cloud of blue-black smoke was moving closer, sending off sparks of light.  
  
“Is that it?” Mary Margaret peered through the binoculars. She pulled them away from her face, extending her hand to David. “I thought it would be…”  
  
“Bigger,” David finished, taking the binoculars. The cloud was ominous but barely wide enough to cover Granny’s diner.  
  
Elsa turned to Emma, the hem of her blue gown swirling around her legs. “Do you feel it?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah.” She felt like she was being pulled out to sea.  
  
“Feel what?” Killian’s voice rose over her parents. He wrapped one arm around her elbow. “What are you talking about Swan?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. I just…” The magic seemed to be draining her strength, or maybe it was the adrenaline fading and exhaustion taking over. Emma swayed on her feet, trying to maintain her equilibrium.  
  
“Emma?”  
  
“Swan!”  
  
She was tired, so very tired, and standing upright felt nearly impossible.  
  
Their voices faded as darkness overtook her vision. Emma pitched forward, one hand reaching for Killian’s elbow, but she only found air. 

////  
  
“Emma are you okay?” Ruby’s worried voice reached her ears about the same time that strong arms lifted her up.  
  
The sudden rush of blood to her head made her nauseous. She swayed on her feet, black spots clouded her vision.  
  
“Hey, are you okay?” David’s face appeared before her eyes. “Emma? Look at me.”  
  
She struggled to breathe. This was wrong. She was outside Granny’s diner, clinging to David with both hands.  
  
“Let me get her some water.” Ruby’s heels clicked on the concrete and Emma had to swallow a gasp because her friend didn’t have those red streaks in her hair anymore. She hadn't since before Emma broke the curse.  
  
Her knees buckled; her thought before she lost consciousness was that she was standing in the middle of Storybrooke, exactly the way she remembered it before the curse broke.  
  
/////  
  
“Emma? Can you hear me?”  
  
Emma looked around frantically, before realizing that she wasn't tied down, nothing was broken, and someone sitting in the chair next to her bed.  
  
She squinted, the hospital room's fluorescent lights making her eyes water, and tried to focus on Mary Margaret’s face. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be here.  
  
“Oh good you’re awake. Do you want some water?” Her friend leaned over the edge of her bed. “Here. Drink this.”  
  
Emma accepted the water with a shaking hand. She swallowed and tried to focus, unable to remember what had felt so important moments before. “What happened?”  
  
She croaked out the question, throat hoarse and head aching. It felt like the worst hangover of her life.  
  
“You passed out in front of Granny’s. David brought you here.” Mary Margaret took Emma’s hand. “Don’t you remember?”  
  
Emma swallowed hard. “Yeah.” She did remember the ground shifting beneath her feet and black spots appearing in front of her eyes.  
  
“Whale was asking all sorts of questions. I think he must have run a dozen tests.”  
  
Emma glanced down at the bandage on her arm. “Did he take blood too?”  
  
Mary Margaret nodded. “You know how thorough he is.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t say more. A nurse bustled into the room, white cap perched on her dark hair.  
  
“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” she said, leaning over Emma to check the vitals on the machine. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Emma squinted at the woman’s name tag but couldn’t make sense of the cursive letters. “Okay. Kind of confused.”  
  
“You were pretty dehydrated,” the nurse answered. “I think the doc might want you to stay overnight.”  
  
Panic gripped Emma and the machine beeped loudly. “No. No way.” She didn’t know why she was getting so upset but she couldn’t sleep in this narrow bed with the bars on either side. Her heart rate jumped wildly.  
  
“Emma you need to breathe, okay?” The nurse’s words did little to calm her panic.  
  
She felt Mary Margaret grip her hand tightly. “Emma it’s okay. You’re okay.” She glanced at her friend, nodding quickly.  
  
“I’m going to get the doctor and see what he says, okay?” The nurse didn’t wait for Emma or Mary Margaret to answer before she left the room.  
  
An instant later a woman with a long blonde braid came through the door. “They said you were finally awake.” She stood next to Mary Margaret.  
  
“Elsa.” The sight of her best friend brought Emma’s heart rate down. She didn’t know why she’d been so worried; she was in Storybrooke, the same town she’d been living in for as long as she could remember. “Where’s Ingrid?”  
  
“She’s giving Whale a piece of her mind.” Elsa’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Apparently he wants you to stay overnight.”  
  
“That’s what Aurora just told her,” Mary Margaret answered.  
  
“Well that’s dumb.” Elsa slid the pendant on her necklace over the chain. “You can stay with Ingrid. I’ll even come home. It’ll be like when we were kids.”  
  
Emma nodded. She wanted to sleep for the better part of a week. “Okay.”  
  
By the time Ingrid arrived at her bedside, Whale at her heels, Emma wasn’t sure why she’d been so upset earlier. It must be the dehydration. Despite her headache, she was able to answer all of Whale’s questions. His platinum hair didn’t help her blurry vision.  
  
The rest of her conversation with Whale was a blur but she must say something correct because he gave her the discharge paperwork and a card for a follow-up appointment. Mary Margaret slipped out, telling Emma that she’d call work and tell them what happened.  
  
After the paperwork was completed, Ingrid left to bring the car around, leaving only Elsa in the room.  
  
“Are you sure you’re alright?” She stared at Emma with such a knowing expression that Emma longed to tell her what had happened earlier. But it didn't matter. It was just a side-effect of not eating enough and trying to log too many miles.  
  
She never should have let Mary Margaret talk her into training for a marathon. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now Emma was certain she was never going to be a runner.  
  
“Yeah. I’m fine. Embarrassed but fine.” Emma swung her legs over the edge of the bed.  
  
“Here.” Elsa passed her a plastic bag with her jewelry. Emma slipped the silver necklace over her head and the silver ring over her left thumb. She rubbed the soft yellow ribbon around her left wrist with her right thumb. Everything was going to be fine. She was home.  
  
////  
  
Nearly a week after her spell in front of Granny’s, Emma was back at work and trying to put the entire incident behind her, when a stranger in a leather coat walked through the door. Monday afternoons should be slow, the perfect space to do all the things she was too busy for the rest of the week, not that the bar ever really got crowded. It wasn’t unusual for her to pass the daylight hours in silence.

She’d worked here since she graduated high school. Sherwood wasn't a popular bar (that would be The Rabbit Hole) but it’s one of three places in town that serves liquor. It’s a sad fact that Granny’s Diner is a more popular place to drink, but Emma doesn’t hold that against anyone. Sherwood has ten tables, a chalkboard menu and four beers on tap. She wouldn’t drink here if she had a choice.  
  
“What can I get you?” Emma wiped a rag over the rough wood, waiting for him to answer. They don’t get strangers in Storybrooke. Maybe an occasional birdwatching group or city couple seeking a few hours of small town life. No one ever stayed more than a day.  
  
He looked up at Emma, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say he’s surprised to see her, but that’s impossible. Whatever flashed through his mind, he recovered quickly, ordering rum in a hoarse voice.  
  
She wondered how long it’s been since he’s spoken (or slept). Emma can go for at least three days without proper sleep, catching naps here and there, but judging by the stubble across his jaw and the dark circles beneath his eyes, this guy was pushing a week.  
  
“On the rocks? And regular or spiced?” She kept her tone light; Leroy was back on days so she won’t see another customer for hours.  
  
He leaned forward, the corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile, even though his eyes were sad. “Surprise me.” His accent rolled over the words but she’s not the type to swoon over the mysterious guy with messy dark hair and bright blue eyes.  
  
Emma considered pouring his drink but reached for the coffee instead. It was fresh, made extra strong the way she preferred, but she didn’t warn him. She slid the ceramic dish of sugar across the bar but didn’t offer cream. She wasn’t running a coffee house.  
  
His mouth twisted into a half smile (for an instant she wondered if she’d spoken out loud) but he wrapped his right hand around the handle without comment.  
  
She studied him, leaning her back against the low counter (it’s as far away as she can get in the narrow space between bar and wall). If the coffee was too strong, he didn't object, taking two sips before setting it back down.  
  
“This your place?”  
  
“No.” Emma shook her head. She didn't tell him how many times she’d considered Ingrid’s offer to work at the ice cream parlor.

The radio sputtered out static. Emma leaned down to fiddle with the dials, trying to find the signal and failing. The classic rock station only worked on a clear day.  
  
She straightened up slowly, careful not to crack her knee on the rack of glasses. The CD player didn’t sound much better but she couldn't tolerate complete silence.  
  
Usually she didn't care, pressing play on whatever disc was loaded, but today wasn't an ordinary day. Emma reached for the canvas case behind the tray of lemons and limes (she sliced them as needed, preferring to keep them whole as long as possible), and pushed the case across the bar. “Pick something.”  
  
It was a motley collection, mixed CDs that David insisted on making when he got his new computer, and albums Emma had picked up on sale. He flipped through it with his right hand, relinquishing his grip on the mug.  
  
“You could use both hands,” Emma said, not sure why she was suddenly out of sorts.  
  
“If only.” His lips curled and his left wrist landed heavily on the bar. The glove around his left hand was stiff.  
  
Emma flushed. “Sorry.”  
  
He didn’t answer, turning quickly from one page to another, before settling on a mix of ballads from the 80s. “What about this?”  
  
Emma wanted to roll her eyes, but she did tell him to pick, and he’d done as she asked. So she loaded the disc into the player without complaint.  
  
The music came over the speakers, too loud at first, but she quickly adjusted the volume to a tolerable level.  
  
“So. What brings you to Storybrooke?” Usually she preferred to pour drinks and slide dishes of peanuts across the bar without making small talk, but something was prickling beneath her skin, like a ghost of a dream, pressing against the edges of her memory.  
  
“Looking for someone.” He took another gulp from the coffee mug.  
  
“You should talk to the Sheriff.” There wasn't much crime in town and David rarely filled a cell during the week.  
  
The stranger nodded but didn’t say more. She had the distinct sense that he was mocking her somehow. Maybe she needed a day off. David had been trying to get her to go camping with him and Mary Margaret, but she wasn't keen on the idea.  
  
“Perhaps you could help me.” He lifted his mug, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth (definitely mocking).  
  
“I’m not really good at finding people.”  
  
“Pity.” The answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. He gestured at the empty bar. “Is it always so lively?”  
  
She shrugged, refilling his mug without asking. “Small town.”  
  
Emma picked up her knife with a shaking hand. Slicing limes didn't require intense concentration but it was a reason to stop staring at her only customer.  
  
“Curious name though. Storybrooke.” His lips curled around the syllables.  
  
Emma made a sound in the back of her throat (she’s not sure if it’s ‘please shut up and go away’ or ‘keep talking because I’m not really paying attention’). Lime juice pooled beneath the thin slices. She should do wedges but she wanted to make herself a drink (just seltzer and lime because she has a feeling one drink would turn into shots if she wasn't careful).  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“Have you been here long?”  
  
She stiffened. Before she could rebuff the question, he let out a low chuckle.  
  
“Don’t answer that.”  
  
“Why not?” Only customer or not, she wasn’t going to listen to this guy talk in circles all afternoon.  
  
“Because you don’t know who I am.”  
  
She thought for a brief moment that he’s angry (or sad), but it didn't matter. She doesn’t know him; he doesn’t know her. They’ve never met. It’s the sappy song making her emotional. This was why she hated lyrics about tomorrows and promises of forever.  
  
“No. I don’t.” She set the knife down hard on the cutting board. “I think you should go.”  
  
He grinned smugly. “There you are.“  
  
His expression made her palms tingle. It’s impossible but she felt a strong pulse of recognition. “Who the hell are you?”  
  
“A friend.” His smile turned wolfish.  
  
“I doubt that. I’m pretty good at faces and I’ve never seen you before.”  
  
He scratched the back of his neck with his right hand, ducking his head slightly.  
  
Now she was really imaging things because for the briefest instant, she had a feeling that she knew that gesture (that she’s teased him about using it to stall or fill a moment).  
  
“Do you know a woman named Ingrid?”  
  
Emma’s chest was tight. “Get out!” She done with his weird cryptic talk. Ingrid had taken her in when she was a baby. She owed Ingrid everything.  
  
“Get out!” She brandished the knife like a broadsword; it’s a paring knife but better than being empty-handed. Her cellphone was still charging at the wall outlet, but she wasn’t afraid. She’d handled guys who were bigger and a lot more drunk than this one.  
  
He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m on your side Swan.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed. She never told him her surname. “Why should I believe you?”  
  
“My name’s Killian Jones.” He held her gaze, studying her face, but she’s not giving anything away. “I’m here to help.”  
  
“Help with what?” She should lock herself in the back room but she needed to know why there’s something familiar about this Killian Jones.  
  
“Put the knife down and I’ll tell you.”  
  
Emma arched her eyebrows. “Tell me and maybe I will,” she countered.  
  
“It may sound mad.”  
  
Emma waited. Nothing could sound worse than the scenarios swirling in her head. Panic rose swiftly, fears of being sent away or left behind. She was too old to worry about being lost but suddenly every childhood nightmare slammed into her mind at once.  
  
“I’m from another world. A different one,” he began and he was right, it did sound completely impossible, but he charged on before Emma could interrupt. “A one where magic is real.“  
  
“How do you know Ingrid?” Her voice was hoarse.  
  
“She’s a powerful witch. Caused a spot of trouble in our town." He glanced at her face, took in her reaction. “You don’t believe me.” He looked dejected.  
  
“Of course I don’t believe you!” Emma’s voice rose sharply. Ingrid and Elsa were her family. A real family, not something out of hocus pocus. She didn’t have time for his crap. “This is the real world. There’s no such thing as witches and magic.”  
  
"It’s the spell,” he insisted.  
  
She’s nearly out of patience, his story more complicated by the minute, but she couldn't bring herself to throw him out of the bar.  
  
“You asked for my story,” he snapped angrily, “let me finish before you dismiss everything.”  
  
“Alright.” She gestured with the knife. “Go on.”  
  
“You’re under a spell. It distorts how you see everything.“  
  
“Really?” She looked around at the bar. It wasn’t the worst job in the world. She could have ended up in a worse place, locked in a tower somewhere with guards outside. Or jail. The idea of a narrow cinderblock-lined cell with a heavy metal door made her stomach dip sharply. She'd never even been in trouble with the law but the idea of being locked away was terrifying, sending fear down her spine.  
  
“None of this is right. You don’t work at a bar. You’re a sheriff.”  
  
Emma let out a sharp laugh, left wrist pressed against her stomach. Her yellow ribbon never faded, no matter how many times she washed her hands, and the familiar sight brought Emma back to center.

She wasn't trapped. This was her home and she was done listening to this strange guy. “You need to leave. Seriously go before I call the real sheriff.”

“You’d turn your back on your family? Because you’re so certain I’m not to be trusted?”  
  
“I don’t even know you.”  
  
He leaned closer. “You’re wrong. You do know me. And you’ve got a whole family worried about you. Parents, a brother, a son. People who love you.”  
  
His eyes searched hers, clearly hoping to touch a nerve, but she can’t listen to him. She doesn’t have any of the things he’d mentioned. Not that it mattered; she didn’t need him.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
He gave her a sad smile. “As you wish.”  
  
///////  
  
She hadn’t slept properly since the hospital. She'd spent two night at Ingrid’s house before returning to the loft she shared with Elsa. But on Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, she stumbled through town like a zombie. 

She’d spent hours tossing and turning in bed, the stranger’s words running on a loop, intermixed with dreams of forest paths and pirate ships and walls made of ice. As she walked to the Sheriff’s station, she can’t stop spinning the silver ring around her thumb. Even though she didn’t recognize Killian Jones, something familiar tingled at the base of her skull.  
  
It was madness, what he said yesterday, because she doesn’t have a child. She’d never been pregnant, never given birth. But her dreams were strange, filled with abandoned carnivals and spinning clocks. She’d dreamed of a boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a wooden castle. Nothing made sense.

Three cups of coffee later she'd left Granny's and headed for the Sheriff's station. Maybe if she talked to this Killian Jones, Emma could shake the feeling of dread squeezing her ribs.

She’d called David yesterday after Jones left the bar, giving him a brief description and asking him to keep an eye out. Before her shift ended, David had sent Emma a text: he’d picked Jones up for loitering outside Gold’s show. It was a flimsy charge but enough to get him off the street.  
  
Marco was repairing a shelf when Emma came around the corner. “Hey Marco.”  
  
“Good morning,” he replied.  
  
She walked straight for the cell. He was sitting on the cot, one leg stretched long and the other bent.  
  
“You look comfortable.”  
  
“Swan.” His smile was almost genuine. “Come to spring me loose?”  
  
“Not a chance.” She perched on the edge of the sofa, arms crossed over her ribs. “Let’s say I believe you. Which I don’t, by the way. Why are you here?”  
  
“To rescue you of course.” He stood up and dipped into a low bow like they were in some kind of ridiculous historical costume drama and she was a princess.  
  
She wanted to laugh but resisted. Instead she scowled, hoping her eyes didn't give away her amusement. “I don’t need rescuing.”  
  
“You never do,” he retorted, coming closer to rest both arms on the rungs. His left arm was covered by a dark leather brace that stopped above his wrist.  
  
Marco muttered something but Emma didn’t turn around. She jerked her chin towards his arm. “What happened to your hand?”  
  
“I believe your Sheriff confiscated it.”  
  
The smart thing to do would be leave the station, go back across town to her apartment and try to get some sleep. But instead she raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” He’s clearly enjoying their exchange. “It’s a story for another time.”  
  
David’s boots were heavy on the linoleum floor. “Emma! What are you doing here?”  
  
She turned around, hoping her expression wasn’t guilty. “I wanted to talk to this guy.”  
  
“Can I talk to you a minute?” David gestured over his shoulder at his office.  
  
She followed him inside, closing the door behind her back. “What’s up?”  
  
David closed the door closest to Marco. “Yesterday you had me arrest the guy and now you’re talking to him?”  
  
She leaned against the low filing cabinet. “I can’t explain it. He got under my skin.”  
  
David paced behind his desk. “I’d probably be the same way,” he admitted, “it’s weird, someone talking about your family and stuff.”  
  
“But that’s the thing,” Emma protested, standing up quickly. “I don’t have any family. And if this guy knows me, like he claims, he would know that.”  
  
“So?” David’s eyebrows came together.  
  
“What if he knows something about my parents? Isn’t it worth finding out?”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“David.” She raised both eyebrows. His voice made her want to press ahead even faster; maybe she’s being reckless but she didn't care.

If there was one tiny kernel of truth to what Killian Jones said about her family, she needed to hear it. “I’m not saying let him out. I just want to talk to him.”  
  
“It’s a bad idea.” David crossed his left arm over his chest. “You know that, right?”  
  
She nodded quickly, hand already itching to grab the doorknob. “I do. But it’s just a conversation.”  
  
Ten minutes later, she was ready to admit that David was right. This was the worst idea she’s had in years.

Killian Jones, sprung free from the cell, had turned up his seduction approach, reclining in the metal chair like he’s minutes away from trying to kiss Emma.  
  
She was out of her element, feet wrapped around the legs of the chair so she doesn’t fidget.  
  
“I know you Swan,” Killian said, leaning back slightly in the chair.  
  
“Really?” She’s tired of riddles.  
  
He smirked. “I know you’ve got a scar on your right hip from getting caught on a metal fence.”  
  
She clenched her hand into a tight fist. “So what?” She was ten, almost eleven at the time and Ingrid had been irate. Emma had been grounded for three weeks but it had healed with only a small scar.  
  
“Alright. What about the freckles  beneath your left breast?” He raised both eyebrows. “You used to think they were stars.”  
  
A flush colored her cheeks but Emma tried to dismiss the statement. “That proves you’re a stalker.”  
  
“Who you’ve never met before?” He seemed to be enjoying their exchange. “Tell me Swan, am I lying?”  
  
“How should I know?” The retort was sharper than she’d intended and seemed to genuinely distress him.  
  
He shrugged. “Merely a thought.”  
  
If she wasn’t sitting down she’d be pacing to relieve the tension in her chest.“Why are you in Storybrooke?”  
  
“I told you,” he replied hoarsely. “To rescue you.”  
  
“Right. From the magic spell. So what happened?“  
  
“You were afflicted.” He scratched behind his neck with one hand. “And I asked to be put under the same one.”  
  
“Really? Who’d you ask? Your fairy godmother?” Emma’s voice crackled with sarcasm.  
  
“No. Your son’s adoptive mother.”  
  
“Because?”  
  
“She’s got magic. Seemed logical at the time.”  
  
“To have someone put you under a curse so you could come get me? Seems a bit excessive to me.”  
  
He clenched his chest with a frown. “You wound me love. And you’re hell-bent on depriving me of a dashing rescue.”  
  
She was missing something but he’s more relaxed than before. “If I did believe you, how do we break this curse?”  
  
He grimaced. “Regina wasn’t too certain on that point. Something about breaking a mirror.”  
  
“I was expecting you to say I had to kiss you.”  
  
Killian chuckled. “Don’t stand on ceremony lass. If you want to kiss me, I won’t object.”  
  
He was mad. That was the only possible explanation Emma could come up with to justify the last ten minutes.  
  
Fortunately David didn’t argue when Emma posted bail for Killian Jones.  
  
—–  
  
“You’re fairly predictable,” Killian told Emma after they settled into a booth at Granny’s.  
  
She didn’t need to look at the menu but it was a distraction (and a shield between them). “Really?”  
  
“I met you in New York once and you did the same thing.”  
  
“Really? I had you arrested and then I bailed you out?”  
  
He nodded, laughing at a joke she doesn’t understand.  
  
“And you tried it again? Maybe the problem is your strategy, not my reaction.”  
  
“Fair point,” he conceded, leaning against the cushions. His left arm rested on the table. Emma didn’t care if it was rude - she wanted answers. She gestured at his left arm. “What happened?”   
  
He scowled, leaning back in the booth. “There was a woman who left her husband and chose someone else. The husband didn’t take kindly to being abandoned.”  
  
“So he sliced off your hand?”  
  
Killian nodded once. “And he killed her.”  
  
She wished he was lying but every instinct said that Killian Jones was telling the truth. She didn’t know how she knew, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. “When?”  
  
His eyes flickered over her shoulder. “Two hundred years ago. Give or take.”  
  
Emma leaned over the table. “You’re not seriously telling me that you’re like three hundred?”  
  
“Would you believe me?” He countered easily, dimples appearing when he grinned.  
  
“No.”  
  
There had to be a logical explanation: it was an elaborate hoax put together by Ruby, or payback for the time she ran over Walter’s foot with her bicycle. “How do I know you?”  
  
“We met while you were searching for your son. I wanted revenge. So I followed you to your land.”  
  
“And then?” There had to be more to the story. He was holding something back. Emma wanted to push harder until she understood.  
  
“You and I,” he considered the words carefully, drawing out the answer, “understand each other.”  
  
“Are we friends?”  
  
“In a way.”  
  
“We’ve slept together.” It’s the only way he could see the scar on her hip. So either they were lovers or they liked to go skinny-dipping.   
  
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you need me to answer that?”  
  
Emma grimaced. “I don’t trust you.”  
  
“Liar.” His lips twitched, softening the word. “I may not have your superpower love, but I know you.”  
  
She rested her arms on the tabletop, ignoring the superpower comment. “Okay. Prove it.”

He opened his mouth but before he answered, Emma raised her left hand. “You only get one try.”  
  
He considered the question longer than she thought he would, tongue poking against his cheek, opening and closing his mouth without making a sound.  
  
“Fine you get two,” she relented, wishing he would say something to stop the tingling sensation spreading from her fingertips.  
  
His expression brightened. “Good form love.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? Who do you think you are, Captain Hook?”  
  
He chuckled - she’d missed the joke again - but his smile was almost genuine. “Alright I’ve got one. You’re afraid that if you let down your walls, you’ll go back to being a lost girl on her own.”  
  
The words brought a hot prickle of tears to her eyes but Emma won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see her cry. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. He’d given voice to a fear she’d never told anyone.

Emma remembered waking up screaming from nightmares of being left alone, watching a car pull away with people who were supposed to love her and take care of her inside, chasing the idea of home without knowing what it looked like or where to find it. The nightmares had lasted into her early teens and sometimes resurfaced, leaving her shaken.  
  
She clenched her jaw tightly. “Try again.”  
  
He studied her carefully, seeing more than she wanted to admit he could see. “Henry.”  
  
“What?” The question fell from her lips before she could process the feelings it ignited. She felt like she was going to be sick. Emma gripped the edge of the table, digging the edge into the heel of her hand and struggled to answer.

“I don’t know anyone named Henry.” Her voice came out hoarse and strangled.  
  
“Then why are you crying?”  
  
Emma swallowed hard over the lump in her throat and touched her cheek. Her fingertips came away wet. “I don’t know who you are but I’m done listening.” She climbed unsteadily out of the booth, legs wobbling with each step.  
  
“Emma!” She heard him call her name but didn’t stop. Emma pushed open the door and stumbled down the short flight of stairs. She turned left, breaking into a run before she could stop herself.  
  
“Wait! Swan!” His voice was growing louder. “Swan!”  
  
Emma stumbled forward, instead of the familiar storefronts she saw stone pillars and piles of golden treasure. She caught herself against the windowframe and leaned heavily against the brick facade. It was the same feeling she remembered from the day she’d gone to the hospital.  
  
“Emma.” He came up behind her, footsteps slowing as he approached. Killian held out both hands, his expression concerned when he stepped in front of her. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Who the hell are you?” She bent forward, hands pressed against her thighs, breathing loud and unsteady. Her first instinct was to step forward, wrap both arms around him and press her head against his sternum, but she resisted. “And what’s happening to me?”  
  
“I told you,” he replied quietly, “you’re under a spell.”  
  
She stood up slowly, trying to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. “That’s not possible.” Her eyes stung with tears, nose running despite her efforts to appear calm. She couldn't stop shaking.  
  
Killian touched her shoulder gently. “There’s a scar on your wrist,” he said softly. “Beneath your tattoo. It’s not from anything of this world.”  
  
Emma swallowed hard but didn’t argue. She wiped carelessly at her eyes with the back of her right hand.  
  
“You were sent through a portal when you were a baby. A tiny spark of magic burned you, just there.”   
  
“Okay fine. Maybe you’re right.” She should push away his hand but his touch was comforting. “Say I’m under some kind of spell. You really think running around town breaking all the mirrors is going to help?”  
  
His laughter carried loudly. Emma shushed him, swatting at his shoulder with her free hand. “I’m serious.” Even to her own ears the admission sounded ridiculous.  
  
Killian shook his head. “Not all the mirrors Swan. Just one. Perhaps Belle could help us.”  
  
“Belle?” Emma stared blankly at him. “Who’s that?”  
  
The tips of his ears turned red. “Apologies. I meant the librarian.”  
  
Emma’s forehead wrinkled. “There isn’t one. The library’s been closed for…well as long as I can remember.”  
  
His eyes seemed to light up at the news. “What do you say then? Fancy a bit of breaking and entering?”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes. “Or I could ask David for the key.”  
  
“My way’s more fun.” He didn’t wait for her to answer before he took off in the direction of the library, leather coat swirling around his legs. Emma shook her head but followed behind him; she really needed a vacation. If David caught them, she didn't want to consider the headaches that would follow.  
  
They walked to the library in silence. The sun was warm through the black fabric of Emma’s jacket. Killian stopped in front of the library and Emma glanced down at the door. The handles were bound with a thick metal chain and padlock.  
  
Rather than looking intimidated, Jones almost seemed to enjoy the challenge. “Don’t suppose you have one of those bolt cutters handy?”  
  
Emma stuffed both hands in the back pockets of her jeans. If Ingrid found out what she was up to, Emma might be the first thirty-something grounded by her adoptive mother. They needed to get out of sight. Storybrooke had too many prying eyes wandering the sidewalks and Ingrid’s ice cream shop was too close for Emma’s comfort.  
  
“Can you hurry up?”  
  
“Patience love.” He bent over the lock, holding a narrow piece of metal between his thumb and index finger. “Keep an eye out for the Sheriff. Don’t need him nosing in our business.”  
  
Emma swayed from one foot to another. “You’re taking too long,” she told Jones, leaning over his bent form.  
  
“You can give it a go,” he replied.  
  
“Fine. Move over.” Emma crouched down next to him, taking the tools from his hand. She inserted one at the top of the padlock, twisting the other until the tumblers shifted and the lock fell open.  
  
“Huh.” Emma rocked back onto her heels and stood up slowly. She’d never tried to break a lock before but her hands had moved like she’d done it dozens of times.  
  
Killian reached over her shoulder and pushed open the library doors. The musty smell of old books and faded newspaper greeted them and Emma recoiled.

She needed sleep; poking around the abandoned library wouldn’t lead to anything good. Emma could only imagine the scandalized expression on Elsa’s face (and Ingrid's fury).  
  
Emma looked around the library. A thick layer of dust covered the circulation desk but stacks of books were still on carts, waiting to be put away.

It looked like the librarian, and all the patrons, had suddenly disappeared. She shook her head. The thought was ridiculous.

"Isn't there another way to do this?”

“Afraid not love.” Killian came around her side, kicking the door closed behind them. “We best leave the lights off.”

“Okay, so what are we looking for?”  
  
Killian reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment paper. He squinted at it in the half-light. “Your father has appalling handwriting,” he complained.  
  
She ignored his comment. Emma looked over at a shaft of light coming through a window on the opposite side of the lobby, closer to the shelves. “Come on.” She grabbed Killian by his left wrist, fingers wrapped around the leather straps of his brace. For the first time she realized that he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic hand.  
  
They stopped beneath the square of light. He tilted the paper left, scowling at the letters. “We need 872 mark 21?”  
  
“Let me see.” She leaned over his shoulder, breasts pressed against his arm. “Thirty one,” she corrected.

“See that little squiggle there?” Emma pointed at the frayed edge of the parchment. “It’s a three.”  
  
Killian stuffed the paper back into his pocket and Emma followed him through the packed shelves. The smell of dust permeated the air.

He seemed to have memorized the layout. Emma trailed at his heels (not staring at the leather coat and not wondering why he was wearing such a ridiculous outfit if he wasn’t in fact who he claimed to be).  
  
“What’s this book do anyway?”  
  
“It should have a key to the spell. El…a sorceress said that the spell came from some story. Maybe the bloody book will give us a clue about this mirror.”  
  
He turned down an aisle. “This is us. Start looking for anything that mentions ice or magic.”  
  
Emma scowled. “Who are you?”  
  
“Already told you. Killian Jones.” He leaned forward, pulling a book from the shelf.  
  
“Who are you to me?” Emma reached for a book without looking at the spine, tugging a thick volume from the shelf and coughing when dust filled her mouth.  
  
His smile was full of promise. “A friend.”  
  
“You’re lying.” She placed the book on the ground and selected another. All of the spines were old and worn. Emma tried to pull the books down carefully.  
  
“Really? You taking a guess or are you sure?”  
  
“Look buddy I might live in a small town but I know a line of bullshit.”  
  
“Clearly.” His entire face broke into a pleased expression. “Keep to the task Swan. The sooner we find this mirror, the sooner we can go home.”  
  
“And where’s home? The back of a motorcycle? Some rundown motel?”  
  
He didn’t answer right away and she wondered if she’d crossed a line between sarcasm and rudeness.

An unfamiliar weight settled in her throat. She didn’t know Killian Jones but the idea that she’d offended him was troubling.  
  
Emma reached for another book, the navy cover etched with a faded golden symbol. It looked like a some kind of ornate sundial.  
  
“May I?” He was staring intently at the cover in her hand.  
  
“Sure.” Emma passed him the book. “Do you recognize it?”  
  
“Not the book,” he admitted, opening the cover reverently. “But that symbol. I’ve seen it before.”  
  
“Where?” She sat down on the carpeted floor, legs stretched wide.  
  
“I don’t remember.”  
  
She exhaled loudly.“Then maybe it’s the wrong book.”  
  
“No. I’m certain this is it.”  
  
“How can you be so sure?” Frustration made her impatient. “You come to my town and start telling me this crazy stories about curses and magic and now I’m supposed to believe that this is the right book to save us because you said so?” Her voice was high-pitched and unfamiliar.  
  
He shook his head, unmoved by her complaining. “I’ve survived decades in a place where magic poisons the very air. And the only way I survived was by trusting my instincts.”  
  
His lips curled into a half-smile. “So yes darling you are going to have to listen to me because I said so.”  
  
Emma scrunched up her forehead, trying to process what he’d said. Nothing made sense but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her life, the one she’d known forever, was coming apart.  
  
She shivered despite herself, goosebumps appearing on her upper arms. This was real life, not some story with fairies and flying shadows. 

"I think you found it." His smile was triumphant. Killian balanced the book on his left forearm, turning the pages with two fingers. “What’s your first memory?”  
  
“I don’t know. School maybe?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “Really think about it. Where did you live?”  
  
Emma tried to answer. She wanted to say Ingrid’s house, could picture the bright blue shutters and the window boxes filled with flowers, but the words turned to ash in her mouth. “I don’t know?”

She trid to imagine her childhood bedroom but couldn't remember whether the walls were painted a light shade of yellow or if they were mint green. Confusion made Emma uneasy. “But that’s not possible.”  
  
Killian set the book down gently on a shelf. “Come here.” He sat on the edge of a table, knees bent.

She followed reluctantly, stopping in front of him, arms crossed.

“I want you to put your hands on my shoulders."  

"Why?” Emma’s pulse was loud in her ears.

“Because I want you to focus.” He winked. “And if you pass out, I’m more likely to catch you this way.”  
  
“I’m not going to pass out.” Even as she said the words, she felt a cold wave of panic like the one from the hospital pass over her body. She gently placed her right hand on his shoulder.  
  
Almost instantly the ground shifted beneath her feet, becoming soft and uneven. The smell of honeysuckle and grass tickled her nose.

Emma shook her head, nails digging into his coat. She glanced down and saw the faded linoleum tiles beneath her boots. "What the hell was that?”  
  
He didn’t answer. “Other hand darling.” Killian gestured with his chin. “Hurry up.”  
  
She reached out, spreading her feet wide. If he stoof up, they'd be in perfect position to begin a waltz. “If you trying anything funny I’ll punch you.”  
  
“I know.”

The scar on his cheek caught her attention (she wanted to touch his face, run her thumb over the scar), but she forced herself to keep eye contact.  
  
“So what do I do? Click my heels and say there’s no place like home?”  
  
He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “I told you. Focus on the tiniest detail. Where did you live when you were five?”  
  
Images flashed before her eyes: Ingrid standing on the porch steps, watching her and Elsa play in the yard. But the images felt too bright, colors too vivid and Emma recoiled. It wasn’t right. There was something else, dark shadows closing in and making the scene grotesque.  
  
“Focus Swan.”  
  
She gripped the leather of his coat tightly, eyes still closed, and tried to focus on the shadows. Flashes of a woman with red hair. An orange bunny rabbit clutched in the crook of her elbow. Scuffed sneakers that were too small with worn velcro straps. Rooms crowded with too many children, crying and yelling and fighting. 

She cried out. His hand gripped her wrist tightly, pulling her back. 

“Open your eyes Swan. I’ve got you.”  
  
She tried to focus, inhaling and exhaling furiously, like she’d run the bleacher steps on a hot day. “What the hell was that?”  
  
His expression was unreadable. “I think the spell coming apart. Now sit down while I get that book.”  
  
Emma took his place on the table, swinging her legs through the air. 

“Now there aren’t many places she could hide it." 

She couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling her everything, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to press him.  
  
“Swan did you say Ingrid had a shop?” Killian stood in front of the table, the book under his arm.

"I didn’t.”

He chuckled. “Fair point.”  
  
Emma crossed her arms. “What are we going to do? Search for a talking mirror?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “It won’t speak.”  
  
“Of course it won’t.” Emma grumbled under her breath, following Killian out of the library.  
  
//////  
  
They stood in front of the ice cream shop and stared at the painted sign. “So what’s the plan?” Emma glanced at Killian.  
  
He scowled. “Find the bloody ice queen and make her reverse the spell.”  
  
Emma gripped him by his elbow and pulled him away from the front door. “How do you know Ingrid won’t recognize you?”  
  
He frowned. “I don’t.”  
  
“Then let me go in. I’ll see if any of the mirrors look weird.” Killian tried to interrupt but Emma cut him off. “Look if you’re telling the truth, it’s me she wants trapped here.”  
  
“Always have to be in control, don’t you?” He ignored her scowl. “Fine. You’ve got five minutes Swan. If you’re not out by then I’m coming inside.”  
  
Emma wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. She tried to talk herself out of panicking. It was Ingrid: the same woman who’d adopted Emma as a baby. Ingrid had raised Elsa and Emma like they were her own daughters, enrolling them in swimming lessons and ballet, driving them to hundreds of playdates and chaperoning countless field trips. She'd let them suggest new flavors for the ice cream shop and they'd spent summers cleaning the cases and drawing pictures to cover the freezer doors. She wasn't a witch. She was a normal woman living in a sleepy town.  
  
Emma opened the shop door. The lights were turned off but the air conditioning must be at full-blast. She frowned. Ingrid never closed early.

“Ingrid? Elsa?” When no one answered, Emma stepped inside, reaching for the panel of switches on the wall. “Hello?”  
  
She flipped the switches but the shop remained dark. Emma tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in her stomach. She never should have listened to Jones in the first place. He was getting inside her head, twisting everything she knew.  
  
Emma glanced at the mirrors mounted on the bright blue walls. Both appeared to be ordinary.

Annoyed at herself, she moved around the counter, glancing at the ice cream cases. Even though the power seemed to be out (the shop was too quiet without the hum of the freezers), the ice cream hadn’t begun to melt. Emma lifted the glass lid and a blast of cold air met her outstretched hand.  
  
“That’s weird,” she said quietly.  
  
Before she could dwell on it, Ingrid’s voice came from the back room. “Emma? Is that you?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s me.” She struggled to keep her voice level. “Is everything okay?”  
  
“Of course.” Ingrid sounded normal but Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that she was lying. “Can you help me try to get the lights back on?”  
  
“Sure.” Emma pushed open the back door. “Did you get a backup generator….”  
  
She trailed off, words failing her at the sight of Ingrid standing in front of an ornate mirror. Instead of her usual uniform of t-shirt and jeans Ingrid was wearing a sparkling white dress that swept the floor.  
  
“Ingrid?”  
  
“Hello Emma.” Ingrid’s smile should have been reassuring but it made Emma’s shoulders tighten. “Come in.”  
  
“Ingrid what’s going on?” The yellow ribbon was like a vice around her wrist.  
  
Instead of answering, Ingrid waved Emma closer, the sleeves of her gown flowing like wings. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”  
  
Emma’s mouth was dry. “Find out what? Ingrid, what’s going on?”  
  
“I told you Emma. You’re special.” Ingrid’s familiar face twisted into something unrecognizable. “That’s why I brought you here. To keep you safe.”  
  
“Safe? Ingrid I don’t understand.” Tears burned Emma’s eyes. She was tired of everyone talking in circles, poking holes in her life.  
  
“Let me show you.” Beneath her gown, Ingrid's feet were bare. Emma stared down in disbelief; nothing felt right.  
  
“Don’t move.” Killian’s voice came from behind Emma.   
  
“Captain.” Ingrid fixed him with the same detached smile. “You’re certainly persistent.”  
  
He came around Emma's left side,  quiet as a jungle cat. A flash of silver caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Instead of the gloved prosthetic, a curved hook was fastened at the end of Killian’s wrist.

“Hook,” she said softly, unprepared for the rush of feelings that followed. Emma didn't understand why the word brought her such a sense of calm but it didn't matter.   
  
He looked over at Emma. “Did you miss me?” Killian turned his attention to Ingrid and pulled a sword from beneath his coat.

It should have felt ridiculous to see a man she’d met only a day ago stand with a sword in the backroom of Ingrid's shop. But it felt familiar, more than Emma wanted to admit.  
  
Ingrid didn’t seem intimidated. “What are you going to do? Run me through with your sword? That won’t save your dear Emma.”  
  
Emma looked over Ingrid’s shoulder at the mirror. An ornate frame surrounded the dark glass but Emma could see small fissures over the surface.

Her eyes flickered over to the large standing mixer on the counter. Emma inched left, moving closer to the mixer. Killian’s eyes never left Ingrid but his lips curled into a sneer.

  
“You’re right. It won’t matter. The only way to fight magic is with more magic.” Before Emma knew what was happening, Killian had dropped his sword and pulled the battered book from his coat.  
  
“And I’m afraid that little book won’t do you much good,” Ingrid replied, her tone overly calm.  
  
Emma shuffled sideways.  
  
“Don’t bother sneaking around my dear.” Ingrid turned her blue eyes on Emma. “I know what you’re up to.”  
  
“Really? Then this shouldn’t surprise you.” Emma lunged for the mixer, both arms outstretched. Before she could lift the mixer, she found herself frozen in midair.  
  
“You should have listened to your friend Emma. Magic’s the only way to battle magic.” Ingrid stepped closer to Emma, her hands glittering with purple sparks. “And you don’t have magic here.”  
  
The words didn’t make sense but it didn't matter. Green ribbons of light began to wrap themselves around Ingrid’s torso. The light moved like a hurricane, twisting faster until Ingrid was completely consumed.  
  
Emma’s elbows slammed hard against the counter when the spell holding her in place released.

“Hurry Swan.” Killian's voice was tight. “This spell won’t hold her in place for long.”  
  
She hoisted the mixer over her shoulder and faced the circular mirror. Emma glanced over her shoulder at Killian.  
  
He nodded with a slight grimace, open book balanced along his forearm. The green light binding Ingrid was growing fainter.  
  
Emma squared her shoulders. Without thinking about the implications, she flung the mixer at the mirror and ducked away, hands covering her face. The mirror shattered with a loud crash, shards of glass flying through the room.  
  
“Stay down!” Kilian’s voice was loud over the chaos. The ground shifted beneath her feet, spinning wildly like a carnival ride.

Emma tried to grab Killian’s hand but she was pulled backward before she could make contact.  
  
//////  
  
“Emma? Can you hear me?”  
  
She squinted, relaxing further into the cushions at the sound of Snow's voice.   
  
“Hey,” Emma said softly. She glanced up at the ceiling. The familiar sights of the loft had never been so welcoming.

Snow smiled and sat back on her heels. Emma sat up slowly, leaning forward and her mother fussed with the pillows propped against the sofa. David stood close to Emma's shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. She gave him a watery smile before turning her attention to Henry. He sat on the floor near her feet, legs crossed and expression serious. “Hey kid,” she said, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder.  
  
“Hi mom.” His smile made Emma forget her exhaustion. He tipped his chin toward the sleeping area and Emma looked over Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

Killian stood against the stairs, one hand clinging to the railing and looking slightly worse for wear. Elsa stood behind Killian, a large book clutched in her arms.

Emma swung her feet onto the floor. Her legs felt like rubber but she managed to stay upright.  
  
Killian released his hold on the railing. Emma didn’t care that they were in the middle of her parents' loft or that she wasn’t a tearful hello person. He’d gone under a curse to bring her back from the hollow reality Ingrid’s spell had created.

Emma flung herself into his arms. They staggered back but stayed on their feet. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his, letting the kiss say everything she couldn’t put into words.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispered, rising onto her toes and kissing the corner of his mouth.  
  
“You’re welcome,” he murmured, nose brushing her temple.  
  
They broke apart at the sound of her father’s exaggerated coughing. “I hate to interrupt but we still have an ice queen to deal with,” he said, ignoring the look on his wife’s face.  
  
Killian wrapped his arm around Emma’s waist, pulling her against his side. She tucked herself into his embrace, one hand tight around his wrist. "Don’t suppose we can put a stopper in that for a few hours? Catch some sleep?”  
  
“Of course.” Elsa stepped forward. “We’ll track down Ingrid.”  
  
Mary Margaret nodded, standing up quickly. “Emma honey you and Killian get some sleep. We’ll wake you up in a few hours.”  
  
“I’ll stay here,” David volunteered abruptly. “In case she comes back.”  
  
Emma ducked her head, muffling her snort of laughter against Killian’s shoulder. Her father let out a yelp that he tried to hide unsuccessful with a cough.  
  
Mary Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. “He’ll come with us,” she told Emma and Killian. “If you need anything call the sheriff’s station.”  
  
Emma nodded, maintaining her composure until the door closed behind her family and Elsa. Once the door clicked shut, she sunk down to the floor. Killian followed suit, stretching his legs out over the floorboards and wrapping one arm around Emma’s shoulders. “You alright Swan?”  
  
“Yeah.” She buried her face in his shirt. If she could sleep for two weeks without interruption maybe she’d be closer to alright.  
  
He squeezed her upper arm gently. “Come on love. Let’s not squander our reprieve.”  
  
Emma allowed herself to be led upstairs. Too tired to remove her boots, she flopped face-first onto the comforter, heels flying up.

Killian chuckled. “Shove over Swan.”  
  
“Un-uh.” She was too tired to move. Something poked her between her shoulder blades and Emma squirmed. “Killian leave it.”  
  
“No.” He gripped her boot with a firm hand. “Bad form to sleep in your boots. Flip over and I’ll set you to rights.”  
  
Despite her exhaustion, Emma couldn’t resist a flirtatious smile when she rolled onto her back. Killian knelt at the edge of the bed, a mischievous expression on his face.

Emma couldn’t contain the jaw-cracking yawn that shattered the moment. He chuckled, loosening her laces with nimble fingers.  
  
Once her boots were removed, Emma tucked her arms around the nearest pillow, drawing her knees closer to her chest. Killian flopped onto the mattress with a sigh.  
  
Emma reached behind her back and pulled his arm over her stomach. He settled against her back. “Sleep now love. The others’ll wake us later.”  
  
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she replied sleepily.


End file.
